


How Not To Beat An Addiction (To Two Dead Lovers)

by lovesrogue36



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Architecture Porn (no? Is that just me?), Captivity, Coitus Interruptus, F/M, Fake Character Death, Hand Jobs, Jealousy, M/M, Masturbation, Missionary Position, Multi, Smut, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 11:17:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovesrogue36/pseuds/lovesrogue36
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five months after the failed coup in Philadelphia, Miles contemplates the last time he was with Bass and Rachel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Not To Beat An Addiction (To Two Dead Lovers)

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I will be honest, I'm still not sure how I feel about this fic but I've been fussing with it for days so. Here it is. Also, fair warning, Bass is quite neglected in this fic but he and Miles are really feuding at this point so his silence is intentional. 
> 
> The setting of this fic is the Philadelphia Athenaeum, which I've taken from the headcanon of my multi-chap fic, Vivre. Although this fic is not necessarily in exactly the same universe, as Vivre is filled with much more tense, platonic kinds of relationships, Vivre goes into more detail about the Athenaeum and how Rachel ended up there, if anyone is interested: http://archiveofourown.org/works/1118210

Eleven Years After the Blackout

Miles sat in the empty bar, his last customers tossed out an hour ago. He stared at the wall, a glass of home-brewed whiskey in one hand and his cock in the other. It was stupid, really. He had a fireplace and a bed upstairs and a girl down the street, if he wanted her. But there he sat in the cold lobby, legs splayed open in an uncomfortable chair and pants unzipped barely far enough. Tonight, the fireplace and the bed and the girl down the street just wouldn’t cut it.

He rested the glass against his forehead, the gesture lacking any real relief without the luxury of ice cubes. Stroking himself with his free hand, he wondered for the billionth time what _the hell he’d been thinking_.

Five months ago, in Philly, things had been bad. Really bad. Bass was off his nut, the rebels were getting stronger every day and the desertion rate had gotten truly appalling.

Miles scoffed. His had been the complaints of a pampered officer, compared to the bone-crushing loneliness of Chicago.

He got Rachel killed. He tried to kill Bass. Fuck Jim and Jeremy and everybody else he screwed over that night.

He lost them both, the only two people who really mattered.

Miles dry-wept into his glass, wishing beyond anything else that he could just _cry_ about it. _I’m sorry. I’m so sorry._

If only he’d known how goddamn good he had it.

Five Months Earlier

 _Rachel, I’m sorry._ Miles shook the insufficient apology from his head in spite of its sincerity, wrenching his gloves off and shoving them in his pocket.

 _I messed up, Rach._ No.

 _This wasn’t what we set out to do._ Maybe.

He marched into the Athenaeum off Washington Park and flipped the lock shut. The building gaped around him, always too large for just one prisoner. It was early though, gold and fog hanging over Philadelphia with the sunrise; early enough he didn’t need to search her out in the cavernous libraries.

Miles took the stairs two at a time, each footstep careless and uneasy. He didn’t deserve to make amends with her, not after everything, but she _had_ to know how many nights he lay awake, how suffocated he felt by richly earned guilt. She had to know before-

Before they went through with this asinine plan.

Rachel’s bedroom was at the end of the hall and he dropped his hand to the doorknob, wrenching it open. “Rachel-”

He expected her curled up in bed in a pair of those silky blue pajamas, hair tangled and a hand tucked under her cheek. Maybe a book open on the pillow.

Certainly not Bass’ uniform discarded by the fireplace, his knees planted on either side of her on the bed and covers slung low over his bare ass. Rachel ground back into him, a wanton moan muffled in the pillow and a hand trapped between herself and the bed.

Both of their heads flew up at his abrupt entrance, curls wild and blue eyes glazed. It wasn’t an unfamiliar sight, really: they’d all three fucked before. When Rachel was bored, when Bass was feeling cruel. But just the two of them there, looking wrecked and too much alike-

Rachel’s hand flew up from where it had been wrapped around Bass’ forearm under her, palm slamming into the headboard. “Miles-” He wasn’t sure what that was in her voice, if it was just the strain of Bass’ cock inside her, (which he could, admittedly, relate to), or guilt at getting caught.

Bass shuddered, hand rolling at her hip, the covers slipping down a little further, as if he hadn’t had a good enough view. It might have been intentional on his part; it might have been Coincidence messing with Miles’ head. If he weren’t so- what? Jealous? Angry? If he weren’t so shocked, maybe, he would have appreciated how good they looked together. Wasn’t that ironic? Of all people, they could still shock him.

He turned on his heel, leaving the door open on them, with every intention of marching out of the Athenaeum and killing something. With his bare hands. There was a quiet scuffle though, mumbled words and then Rachel was right behind him, silent on bare feet. He whirled on her, sheet clutched to her chest with one hand, her hair messy around her face. She looked… _debauched_.

“What the _hell_ are you doing?” Miles growled, barely cognizant of the fact he’d spoken at all.

She reached out, small hand sliding into his, and squeezed. “Gets lonely in these old buildings,” Rachel managed finally, sounding rough but sure of herself. That’s what she always said, when he asked how she could stand to touch him. How she could still feel something for him. He kind of thought maybe it was meant to be dismissive but it rang a little too true for that. The Athenaeum, Independence Hall. They were like great, dusty monuments to their own empty rooms.

Miles winced, staring at their hands so he didn’t have to look at her bruised lips or the swell of her breast just above the sheet. They stood there, awkward like the old lovers they were, two steps out of the bedroom.

“Not like we’ve never fucked before, Miles.”

“Never alone.”

“How do _you_ know?”

The times they’d all three been together, he found them gorgeous. Undone and careless and so pale next to him, their blood showing blue through fine-stretched skin. But he never imagined it just the two of them. She hated Bass, thought he was callous and cruel and out of his mind, because it was the _truth_.

He could have asked her why, why she would let _him_ into her bed, why she had ever let either of them touch her. Instead he only drove his hands into her hair, palms braced at her jaw and teeth in her lip. Rachel gasped against his mouth, clutching at his shoulder as he kissed her, teeth and tongue punishing.

Miles drew a hand down between her breasts, tugging the bunched sheet from her fist. His fingers brushed bare skin and he shivered in spite of himself, the prospect of her naked under him as irrationally debilitating as ever. They stumbled back into the bedroom, the sheet twisting on the floor, nearly tripping them both.

Bass eyed them from the bed, hand lying between his legs, and Miles wondered what they looked like: he in his uniform, hair mussed from her hands, and Rachel naked to the tips of her toes, almost as tall, his arm wrapped in green wool around her waist. He watched over her shoulder as Bass stroked himself, just once, jaw clenched. Untangling from her, he pushed her none-too-gently onto the bed.

Rachel caught herself with one hand fisted in the sheet, knees spread apart. Her lips were slicked with blood, he realized; he must have bit harder than he intended. Miles stripped out of his jacket and discarded it over a chair, stare glued to Rachel. She sat on the bed, perfectly still, as if waiting for him, though he knew how desperately she wanted to slide two fingers inside herself. Rachel rarely let either of them bring her off but there she was, patient and tempting, just for him (and Bass, at the end of the bed with his hand on his cock. Miles ignored him, for now.)

“You gonna help here?” he barked, the words catching in his throat as he tugged his shirt free. Rachel watched him for a few silent moments before reaching out, fingers hooking in a belt loop and pulling him so he stood between her thighs. She loosened his belt, his fingers fumbling with buttons as he allowed himself a long look at her soft, naked body. Wholly distracted by his belt and pants, she seemed unaware of his open stare on her curves. She probably wasn’t; unaware, that is. Rachel was never unaware.

Leaning a knee on the bed, Miles smoothed her hair from her face. It was a bit… tender, for the situation, but the thought that in a few weeks, he’d be sending her back to Ben sent a sharp blade into his gut. Sharper than the sight of her with Bass, even. He tipped her chin up, mouth slanting over hers, her hands still caught in his half-open pants. Rachel sighed into him, fingers twisting in thin cotton. She tasted like pennies, (blood on her lips), and Bass (lemon and tobacco, though he hadn’t smoked in years.)

When he pulled back, reluctant, she looked kind of resigned. Like she _knew_.

But how could she know? For them, this wasn’t goodbye, it was just a twisted early morning fuck. The tip of his tongue swiped her blood from his lip.

“Boots. Off,” she ordered.

When he didn’t respond, unable to tear his eyes away from her, she tugged on his pants. Miles sighed, leaning against the table to unlace his boots and wrench his clothes off, leaving them in a ball on the hardwood.

When he turned back, she had her head on Bass’ thigh, staring at the ceiling with fingers laced through his and a foot flat on the bed. Disjointed sunlight dappled across the bed, across all that pale, scarred skin, though Rachel’s room faced the building next door, her single window nailed shut.

Neither looked up, absorbed in their private judgments of him, he supposed, but before he could sink onto the bed, Bass’ hand closed around his wrist. Miles stared at the familiar veins and knuckles for several long moments, wondering what the other man wanted. His fingers curled into a fist and he jerked away without ever looking at him. Kneeling on the bed, Miles dropped into her line of sight, hand sliding between the remaining sheet and Bass’ leg, caught beneath her shoulder.

Rachel’s lips lifted into one of those bored smiles, the kind she pasted on for their more official visits. The kind with threats and unanswered questions. The kind he’d meant to be apologizing for. He trailed his fingertips down her cheek, sliding between her breasts and over her ribcage without breaking their stare until she shivered for him. She extracted her hand from Bass and slid it over his shoulder, her palm ice cold before she shoved her fingers into his slicked back hair.

Miles lifted her thigh over his hip, admiring the sprawl of her curls next to Bass’ cock, still just slightly wet from being inside her. The idea made him want to punch something, preferably Bass. He settled for pushing inside her, thumb digging into a bruise on her leg, unsure which of them had left it there. Rachel screwed her eyes shut, nails scraping down his shoulder blade, a muffled gasp escaping her. The Blackout had taken most everything, but a few things remained the same: the taste of sweat on Bass, the sound Rachel made when he slid inside her.

She hooked a foot around between his legs, canting her hips up so everything was deep and wet and his eyes nearly rolled back at the tight, cramped feeling of her around him. Beside her head, Bass stroked himself, leisurely, as if he had all the time in the world. If only he knew.

She stretched an arm up, nearly knocking him in the face, and a moment later, Bass gave a little moan, headboard rattling. He darted a look up at his friend to find his head tipped back, eyes closed, Rachel’s hand wrapped loosely around his cock. The narrow band of her wedding ring glinted in the sunlight. _Hell._

Miles ducked his head to her throat, sucking at the pulse of blood just beneath her skin. What would Ben do if she came home, marked with his (their) hands and mouth? He shifted his hips, sliding that little bit deeper, and her stifled moan all but undid him.

He picked up a slow rhythm, some kind of twisted mirror of two people making love, his hands braced on either side of her and eyes fixed on the obscenely gorgeous sight of her rubbing Bass off. Her fingers swiped over the tip, blind; his hand rested lightly over her upturned wrist, guiding her. _God_ , he knew just what that felt like: her small hands on you, eager and soft and cool.

When Miles glanced down again, he found Rachel’s eyes slammed shut, her pale, battered lips parted in concentration. Bass’ free hand rested on her breast, long fingers flicking at a pink, hardened nipple and drawing a quiet, reluctant groan from her. “Look at me, Rach,” he heard himself say and after a few heartbeats, she peeked too-blue eyes open at him, unfocused and ingenuous, as much as he knew that was far from the truth. His breath caught in his throat, tongue dashing out over his lips.

He dropped his mouth to her jaw again, scraping the blunt edge of his teeth against her skin. Beneath him, he felt Rachel working a slender hand between them, the backs of her fingers skimming through the hair on his chest and stomach. Though his skin burned wherever she touched, he dragged her wrist away and pinned her to the bed.

“None of that,” Miles rumbled into her neck, imagining her lips pressed together and eyes tight at the corners, that pinched, rebellious face she always made when he wouldn’t let her come.

He shoved her wrist up the bed, elbow ramming the wall with an edge of reality. Bass’ fingers brushed his as he gathered her wrists in one large hand without being asked. In this, of all things, they could still read each other’s minds.

Rachel squirmed beneath him, moaning her complaint, but Bass only tightened his hold on her wrists. She’d have bracelets of bruises later. Miles ignored the thought, crooking his fingers under her knees and spreading her legs wide apart on either side of him. The bed creaked under their weight as he thrust inside her, one hand edging between them to grind his knuckles against her clit.

She gave a strangled gasp, panting, and he shot a glance up her body. Miles jerked against her at the sight, her breasts soft and straining and back arched into him, his cock twitching inside her. He swiped the beads of sweat from just beneath her breast, tongue lingering on her skin.

“Say it, Rachel.” The words weren’t his; rather, Bass’ voice sounded ragged from disuse, the first words he’d spoken since Miles threw open the door. She glared up at him through half-slit eyes, lips parted. “ _Say it._ ”

Rachel seemed intent to defy him and, Miles had to admit, it was a more arousing look on her than any other. She bit her lip over each rough moan he tore from her throat until Bass wound sticky fingers in her hair and tugged, the pinch of pain apparently too much. She arched off the bed with a muffled cry, bare feet scrabbling against the backs of his thighs as she clenched and came around him. “ _Miles-_ Fucking _unf_ \- Miles, yes yes _yes-_ ”

The sound of his name tumbling off her lips with the familiar nonsensical curses sent a shot of something like nostalgia through him and Miles barely managed to pull out of her before he was wringing himself out over her stomach. That must have been what Bass was looking for because he immediately released her, hands returning to his unattended cock, lying hard against his thigh.

Somehow through her own haze, though Miles was still lying all-but-unconscious between her breasts, Rachel managed to clamp a hand on Bass’ thigh, stopping him. “Let Miles.”

His head shot up, eyes snapping open. “What?”

It wasn’t like they hadn’t done it all, hadn’t had each other every way they’d ever wanted to. But it had been almost a year since he’d touched Bass and in a few days- Miles choked up. At the thought of his best friend dead or at the lonely blue of his eyes, he wasn’t sure. Before he quite knew what he was doing, Miles had lifted himself off Rachel, one knee still planted on the bed and his body draped over Bass.

He wrapped his hand over the other man’s, feeling the weight of Bass’ arm around his neck and the slick slide of his tongue in his mouth. It was only a few short strokes before Bass was coming over their hands but, god, it felt like thirty-five years of history all rolled up into forty-five seconds. One or both of them might have been crying when they came back to themselves; nobody admitted it. Only drew Rachel between them, three bodies and a damp, wrecked sheet quickly cooling.

Miles blinked his eyes open sometime later, the shadows in the room longer and Rachel’s weight gone from the bed. Bass lay sprawled over him, arm flung across his chest, and Miles reached up a hand to run fingers through those tempting curls. Lifting his head, his eyes landed on Rachel sitting at the vanity, a thin robe draped over her shoulders as she wrung a washcloth out into the porcelain bowl there. She met his eyes in the mirror, body tilted just far enough that he could see her stroke the cloth over her breasts, cleaning from her skin the sticky mess they’d all made.

He watched her for a while, hand stroking the warm, quiet body at his side. “What was he doing here?” Miles asked finally, not sure he wanted to know the answer, whatever it may be.

Her eyes flickered to Bass’ sleeping form and back up to his in the mirror. “He came by to talk about you. Thinks something’s up.” Rachel twisted to look at him, cloth paused between her thighs. “You must be even more silent and grumpy than usual.”

His chest seized and he imagined a gun in his hand.

Miles grunted, closing his eyes. “He’s just paranoid.”

 


End file.
